Miss Stephanie said Atticus didn’t bat an eye, just took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and stood there
and let Mr. Ewell call him names wild horses could not bring her to repeat.
Mr. Ewell was a veteran of an obscure war; that plus Atticus’s peaceful reaction
probably prompted him to inquire, “Too proud to fight, you nigger-lovin‘ bastard?”
Miss Stephanie said Atticus said, “No, too old,” put his hands in his pockets and strolled on.
Miss Stephanie said you had to hand it to Atticus Finch, he could be right dry sometimes.
Jem and I didn’t think it entertaining. “After all, though,” I said, “he was the deadest shot in the county one time.
He could—” “You know he wouldn’t carry a gun, Scout. He ain’t even got one—” said Jem.
“You know he didn’t even have one down at the jail that night. He told me havin‘ a gun around’s an invitation to somebody to shoot you.”
“This is different,” I said. “We can ask him to borrow one.” We did, and he said, “Nonsense.”
Dill was of the opinion that an appeal to Atticus’s better nature might work: after all, we would starve if Mr. Ewell killed him,
besides be raised exclusively by Aunt Alexandra, and we all knew the first thing she’d do
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